


Fata Morgana

by voicedimplosives



Series: Atmospheric Optics for Beginners [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Darcy Lewis-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Supportive Female Friendship, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 12:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11967066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voicedimplosives/pseuds/voicedimplosives
Summary: As her computer booted up she played idly with the idea of having told her boss the truth.“Hey Mr. Larson, sorry for oversleeping but I woke up in my tiny, rinky-dink bed with six feet, two hundred thirty pounds of super soldier assassin man wrapped around me and his beautiful fucking face looked so relaxed and peaceful in sleep that I laid there and stared at him like a lovesick teenager for a whole hour.Also, his incredibly large boner was rubbing against my leg and the implosion in my panties left me temporarily paralyzed.My b!”





	1. The One Where Lewis Sticks the Landing

Once again the merciless, ageless eyes of the Dark Elf Lord stared deep into the mind of Darcy Lewis as she knelt before him, powerless to fight or even stand. Slowly, agonizingly, she turned her head and then her eyes far enough to her right to catch sight of Jane Foster, running towards her in slow-motion with a hand outstretched as she screamed something that Darcy could never hear, her words stolen by the whirling blood-red atmosphere trapping them in this tempest with that thing and its ship.

Even with her eyes on Jane's face, she could feel the malevolence and power seeping towards her from the ancient being. She tried to shout back and found she had no voice; between one blink and the next Jane was gone, pulled up into the screaming wind along with everything else in its path. Darcy forced her head to turn to the left and whimpered as Thor's hammer fell from his hand, his face ashen and despondent as he crumpled to the ground.

She groaned then, absolutely certain that the conspiring forces of the Convergence, gravity, and Malakith's gaze were about to tear her apart. And indeed when she managed to force her gaze down towards her hands she found they were disintegrating before her eyes, as though her very atomic material was being unwound and the cindered ashes of what was once her body were being pulled into the howling storm...

“Nyah!” Darcy started from the awkward position she'd fallen asleep in on her futon. She sat up quickly, panting. The neon glow of the OxiClean infomercial playing quietly on her TV washed over her, bringing her back to reality. She was safe. Malakith was gone. Jane had turned the dial on her dinglehopper, and he'd gone bye bye. Loki was gone. Jane had seen him die with her own eyes on Sporkleheim. Thor was fine. He was in London, with Jane. They were happy. It had been months since the convergence. Everyone was safe. She was in D.C., in her studio apartment. She had an interview in the morning. She had a home. She was slowly making friends with her neighbor's cat. Everything was okay. She was okay.

The mantra worked. She felt her heart beat returning to a normal pace. She checked the clock on her phone. Five forty-five.

“Oh well, might as well get up and get this show on the road,” Darcy grumbled, reaching for her glasses. The thought of returning to her nightmare pushed her up off the couch and across the room to her tiny kitchenette.

What she was going to need was coffee. A lot of it. Possibly all of it.

*

“So, Miss Lewis, going off of what we've talked about today it sounds like a lot of experiences from your time at Culver University basically prepared you to take over this position. But I feel like I've gotta ask... I got a glowin' reference here from a Doctor Jane Foster... how did you end up in an internship with her? I'm not very familiar with her work but I'm pretty sure it has nothing to do with political science...”

Darcy shifted in her seat, smiling widely as her mind raced furiously. She had known this question was coming. She was prepared. She was rocking this interview and now she just had to bring it home. She knew that this would be the toughest question, but she could get through it if she just focused on making sense and not letting herself get lost in the memories.

“Well, Mr. Larson I'm glad you asked me that, because I can only imagine how unusual that looks. The thing is, the internships available at Culver are extremely competitive. I applied to several in my field but then my dad, who was living in Tempe at the time, was diagnosed with lung cancer. It was really touch and go for a couple months, and I was traveling back and forth between the Culver campus and Tempe pretty much every weekend.

By the time I found out I'd been accepted to two internships here in D.C. they'd already been filled by alternate candidates. Plus, by then I knew I needed to spend the summer closer to my dad. I heard through a friend that Dr. Foster's internship was still open and that it would take me to Puente Antiguo, which is only about, uh, a two hour drive or so from my dad's place? It wasn't ideal of course, but I tried to make the best of a bad situation.”

The round-faced older man behind the desk smiled gently, nodding his head. “I understand,” he said, “I lost my mom when I was about your age.”

Darcy nodded back, then looked down at her hands. “I'm glad I ended up where I did though. Even though what I was doing for Dr. Foster wasn't polisci, I learned a lot about work ethic and thinking creatively to troubleshoot issues on the fly,” Darcy paused, took a deep breath, and continued, “She really mentored me, y'know? And it was interesting, working with a woman in a male-dominated field. I think a lot of what I learned can be applied to whatever field I'm working in.”

Mr. Larson laughed softly, scanning her CV contemplatively. “You're pretty good at this interview thing, kid. Tell you the truth, I met a lotta qualified candidates today whose resumes I didn't find half as interesting as yours. Think you'd be able to relocate to D.C. for the job?”

Darcy smiled widely and nodded, “Absolutely. I'm already here basically, I just found a place two weeks ago. I've been doing some volunteer work with the Potomac River Cleanup Group on the weekends, you know, pulling pieces of those Helicarriers out of the water? But otherwise I'm completely available.”

“Ah, yeah. Whew. Must've been about a month ago those things went down, I think. Crazy. What a mess, huh?” He paused, looked down at the papers in front of him and fiddled with the pair of glasses laying on his desk before continuing, “And... your dad?”

“He, uh, he passed away. It's not an issue. I'm here in D.C. now,” Darcy said, with as little emotion and as much finality in her voice as she could muster.

The man nodded one more time, without comment and almost to himself, then pushed his chair back and made to stand up. “Alright Darcy, I've got a few more interviews this week but I feel good about our talk today. I'll let you know either way by the end o' the week, Monday at the latest.” He held his hand out and grinned warmly. “It was great meeting you.”

Darcy rose and shook his hand, attempting to keep a professional face even as her stomach flipped over in excitement.

“Thank you again Mr. Larson for the interview, it was great talking to you. I think I'm probably going to go spend the afternoon exploring the African Art Museum; I've been meaning to visit it for weeks.”

Larson sat back in his chair, grinning and shuffling the papers on his desk. “Oh yeah, their Senegalese exhibition is really excellent. Just a wonderful collection. Talk to my secretary Maggie on your way out, tell her I asked her to get you a visitor's pass and have a nice afternoon, okay?”

Darcy thanked the older man again enthusiastically before waving awkwardly and exiting the office. Once out of his eyesight she allowed herself do a little victory boogie right there in the hallway before she heard an amused exhalation from somewhere behind her.

She turned to see Larson's secretary sitting at her desk, chin in her hand while she watched Darcy's impromptu performance bemusedly. Darcy... had not remembered her desk being so close to the office. Whoops.

Darcy curtsied sheepishly, then approached the desk, asking, “You're Mr. Larson's secretary, right? Miss, uh...” She looked down at the name card sitting in front of her, “Ms. Jones? Sorry I subjected you that. I've been so amped up for this interview all week, I just couldn't help it. Anyway, he, uh, Mr. Larson? He said you could hook me up with some African Art Museum quality time.”

Miss Jones smiled fondly. “Of course, dear. Do you know how to get there from here?”

 

*

Jane slowly woke up to the very pleasant feeling of a beard scratching her stomach as kisses were distributed in a ring around her belly button. She opened one eye and peered down at Thor, whose eyes met hers. He smiled secretively, kissing his way down to the inside of her right thigh, before crossing to pay fealty to her left.

“Good morning, dearest,” his voice rumbled as his mouth descended on her already wet slit.

“Hi,” she whispered back, trying and failing to restrain the effervescent joy that bubbled up inside of her. They'd been here before, and it had been like this before, but she couldn't let herself get carried away again.

As if sensing her thoughts, Thor placed his mouth exactly where she needed it and let his tongue gently warm her, licking slowly and deliberately along her cunt until her hips involuntarily bucked. He looked up at her again, and now both her eyes were wide open. She was panting, staring down at him with eyes full of emotion and he beamed at her before returning to his work in earnest, eating her out with a nudge here and there at her clit from his nose.

When she started softly keening he turned his attention fully to her clitoris, tonguing at it from the left and then right while easing first one then two thick fingers inside of her. Her hips bucked again and she let out a breathy sob but he persisted, alternating pressures and techniques until he was rewarded with her sharp cry and her wet release. Jane felt the walls of her cunt throb as the tension Thor had created reached a wild, toe-spasming crescendo and the ensuing release crashed over every muscle in her body. 

Her thighs went slack and she laid her head down on the pillow, smiling sweetly at the god as he crawled his way back up her body. He settled beside her and his laid his left hand atop her rib cage possessively. His face turned serious as he extended his fingers, then ran his hand down along her stomach. The breadth of his hand almost completely reached from hip to hip.

Nobody made Jane feel like this. Nobody. She'd never felt so small or vulnerable but at the same time, so completely safe as she did when they were here like this. In her bed, together, alone. No clothes and no work and barely even any words. Just the song they made together when his skin met hers, an unstoppable magnetism pulling them together for hours on end.

His mouth descended onto hers and his lips were soft, the beard scratching her nose when he shifted to kiss her more deeply. He tasted salty, she thought, and imagined it was probably what she herself tasted like. And somehow bitter. Coffee, her mind provided.

She had plans to meet her mother for lunch later and she, Ian and Erik were still processing data from the convergence. She knew all the work Ian had done yesterday, unsupervised and without being asked to, needed to be double checked today for errors.

She needed to send Thor to look in on Erik as well. Her onetime mentor was coming back to himself but he still had bad days, when his speaking was erratic and jumbled and he tried to walk out the front door, muttering about errands and tesseracts, without remembering pants or shoes. He sometimes started crying without warning or seemingly any cause. It was alarming; Jane wasn't good with stuff like this. She never knew how to help him on those days. He had done so much to help her when she was first starting out and the thought of his great mind, capable of so much insight and vision, being permanently damaged was too much for Jane, so she brought her thoughts back from their wanderings to this moment, in bed, with Thor.

Thor, who brought Erik back to himself whenever his sanity started slipping. Thor, who had come back for her. Thor, who had saved her from the Aether. Thor, who had stayed this time.

They'd have to leave this safe harbor they'd made for themselves soon. But first, Jane thought as her hand ran down his muscled stomach to find him hard and ready for her, she'd like to linger here a little a longer.

 

*

The bottle of Maker's Mark was a lot emptier than she'd thought it would be and Darcy huffed at herself in frustration before placing it back in the fridge and grabbing a half-full bottle of Grey Goose from the freezer instead. Only the best for the one-month anniversary of scoring her sick new job, right? She returned to the fridge for the orange juice then shuffled over to the futon, tumbler and bottles in hand.

Screwdriver successfully assembled, she adjusted the laptop on the coffee table, opened Skype, and waited for Jane's avatar to pop up so they could begin their ceremonial Two Cocktail Minimum Call.

The ritual was one they'd started after news that Jane's paper on the events surrounding Thor's first visit had been published by the Journal of Celestial Mechanics and Dynamical Astronomy while Darcy was at home in West Virginia visiting her mom.

They'd done it again, this time in mourning, when Darcy had returned to Tempe to bury her dad while Jane was at the Shedding Light on the Dark Universe with Extremely Large Telescopes conference in Lanzhou, China. There had been a few other occasions, some celebration and some commiseration, in the interim. The latest had been about a month ago, after Darcy had received a call from Mr. Larson offering her the position of Social Media Content Coordinator for the Smithsonian Museums Organization.

Jane had sent her a mysterious text this morning reading simply, “Two CT Min Call tonight. 6 pm you/11 pm me?”

So here she was. Cocktail in hand. Where was Jane?

The jaunty Skype ringtone jerked Darcy out of her thoughts and she quickly accepted the call, leaning forward so that the only thing visible to Jane would be the inside of her left nostril.

“Hey Darce, sorry I'm late. Had to make a quick Tesco run because I realized ten minutes before our call that I was out of grapefruit juice! Thor drank the last of it this morning because he quote, didn't realize I favored it so, unquote. Ugh. Are you there? Darcy? What am I looking at right now?”

Darcy pulled back and Jane, upon realizing what she had in fact been looking at, rolled her eyes and grinned. “So mature, this one. That's our Darcy Lewis, a shining beacon of restrained elegance.”

Darcy eased back until she was laying horizontally on her futon, pulling the coffee table closer and taking a sip of her drink. “Yeah yeah, sure thing Miss My-Favorite-Pop-Tarts-Flavor-is-Wildlicious-Wild-Berry-'Cuz-I-Like-the-Colors!”

“Whoa now, judge not lest ye be judged missy. Do not forget that I know your Netflix password and I _know_ what you binge-watched last weekend...”

“Okay, okay!” Darcy laughed, taking another sip and relaxing into the futon. “I concede, Uncle, you win. Please let's never discuss my terrible Netflix choices again.”

Jane nodded triumphantly, took a sip of her own cocktail, then glanced distractedly off-screen and smiled.

“He's there, isn't he?” Darcy asked. “Hey big guy! How's London?”

Thor's large blonde head came into view, blocking out Jane completely. “London is fine.” He grinned and turned his head, catching Jane's lips in a quick kiss before ducking off-screen again. She smirked at Darcy. “Thor was just heading out to the supermarket. Without my help. It's so lucky we had this Skype date planned because ever since he offered to help with the grocery shopping I've been threatening to follow him and film the entire adventure then post it on Youtube, and today of all days he's decided he's ready to take the plunge...”

“An unearthly coincidence, orchestrated by the Norns themselves!” she heard Thor's faint shout before the front door shut behind him.

“Hah, okay. I won't pretend I'm not disappointed that I don't get to see that but let's move on. What're we celebrating? I hope we're celebrating. Are we celebrating?” Darcy asked.

“Yes,” Jane said. “We are celebrating me, accepting a job at the Universität Wien, where I'll be teaching one graduate level class per semester and spending the rest of my time leading their Astrophysics' research department!”

“Holy guacamole, Jane. I think we may need to up this puppy to a Three Cocktail Minimum! That's incredible news. When did you even apply?”

“Last month, but I've been sitting on that until I found out either way.” Jane replied excitedly, refilling her drink and bouncing a little in her seat as she went on to describe the logistics of what she'd be doing in her new role.

The details washed over Darcy, some of it familiar administrative jargon and some of it a pure sciencey dialect which her brain could neither comprehend nor retain. She smiled and nodded along anyway, enjoying the quiet pride and happiness in her friend's glowing face. The topic switched to her job and she caught Jane up on the details of what she'd been doing: managing the Twitter, Facebook and Instagram accounts account for what felt like half the museums in D.C.

“It's exhausting sometimes but it's also really fun, you know? I've met so many people who are so plugged in to what's going on in the city. It's just... really satisfying. Like, not a forever job. But a totally perfect right now job?”

Jane tipped her cocktail towards the screen at that and they both drained their drinks. They talked a while longer, brainstorming contingency plans if the University of Vienna wouldn't accept Erik onto the faculty and how exactly Darcy would get out of going home to see her mother this Thanksgiving. Then Jane yawned and Darcy knew it was time to let her friend turn in.

“Hey I should get going, my little succulent garden isn't going to water itself, you know?"

Jane tilted her head quizzically, one eye closed while she pondered, then replied, “I don't even know where to begin with that. Is that innuendo? You have a, um, 'little succulent garden?'”

Darcy turned her laptop to the left, where pots of cacti and rosette-shaped fleshy plants alternated in a neat row along her two window sills.

“Oh. Okay! You have a little succulent garden. I'm not a biologist or anything, but... do those even need water?”

Darcy grinned, turning her laptop back before replying, “Nope, not so much really. But I do after this wild Skype party, and you need to go to bed. Congrats again, boss lady!”

Jane grumbled good-naturedly before waving goodbye and Darcy flashed the peace sign then blew a kiss before ending the call. She turned to the succulents. “Alright, now, some of you need some serious trimming before you grow out of those pots and through the window. Don't think I don't see you, Herbert. You're very happy in that sunny spot, aren't you? A little _too_ happy, methinks...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would not BELIEVE the level of Pop Tart research that went into this one. Whew. Hope it was worth it. Also this one has sex and if it's bad I am actually sincerely sorry. I would never purposefully subject someone to poorly written smut. I'm just new here.
> 
> Also, the Shedding Light on the Dark Universe with Extremely Large Telescopes conference is a real thing. In case anyone wants to go.


	2. The One Where Darcy Sees a Ghost

At just after two pm Darcy sent out the last of her afternoon postings. Fridays usually meant promoting upcoming events for the weekend. Today she had focused on Saturday's “Panda Party” at the Zoo, the finally fully-renovated _Wakanda and the World Outside_ exhibit at the African Art, and the kick-off weekend for the “WWII Film Month”, designed to pull in some of the crowd still thronging the Institution's temporary exhibit, _Captain America: the Living Legend and Symbol of Courage_.

It had opened three months ago and the Times, the Post, and the Informer had given it great reviews. She was dying to go herself but between trying to maintain any semblance of a social life, throwing in to help the publicity department prepare for next week's Smithsonian Campaign fundraising gala, volunteering to pull debris out of the Potomac on her weekends and doing her own job to boot, she'd barely had enough free time to ignore her succulents, let alone take an afternoon wander through any museum.

“Knock knock, you in there?” Larson leaned into her tiny windowless office with a fatherly grin, his newly-grown grey mustache twitching. “Just finished reading that Informer blurb, nice catch! I almost missed that one but I think now I might hav'ta send 'em one of those baskets of edible fruit flowers, whatever they're called. The press this exhibit has been getting is fantastic, I swear. The ones that are kinda dry, where we could use their help? The media couldn't care less. The ones that basically sell themselves? Everyone's slobbering for a free press pass. Anyway, thanks for the overtime this week Lewis. The turnout's looking good for the gala.”

Darcy pulled up two finger guns from her invisible holsters, which she shot off at the older man while returning his grin. He asked, “Should I grab you a ticket?”

“Nah, thanks but no thanks. I don't have anything to wear to it and besides, I'm pretty sure the only attendees are high-rollers that do _not_ want to hang out with the likes of me,” Darcy answered.

“Hey now, this is America! Land of the free, home of the brave! No snooty aristocracy's gonna stop us from getting our kicks! All are welcome. I'll be going! And you know, Jack from the Publicity Department will be there.”

“Cute Jack or Married Jack?”

“C'mon Lewis, would we be having this conversation if it were Married Jack? So, one ticket?”

“Yeah alright, but no laughing at me when I show up in the only nice dress I have. It may or may not be from my high school prom.”

“Never! Cross my heart. D'ya have much more content to get out today?”

“A couple things but not a crazy amount, why? What's up?" Darcy turned fully from her computer and faced Larson, her brows furrowed with concern.

He raised his hands, “Hey, no, nothing. No problems. But you've been working like crazy this week, and you've been talking about that Cap exhibit for a month. We're in good shape here and we can spare you for the afternoon. Why don't you go take a visit? Do some selfies and post 'em on the Facebook, we'll write off your travel costs as a work expenditure.”

“You da best, Mr. Larson,” Darcy replied, quickly flipping her computer off and grabbing her jacket then rising to switch off the single fluorescent lightbulb illuminating her tiny closet office and following her boss out the door.

“That I am, Darcy. Take a taxi and get receipts, okay? Oh, and Lewis?”

“Yessir?”

“Grab me one of those Captain American posters from the giftshop, willya? The one where he's looking off into the distance, heroically.”

Darcy rolled her eyes and nodded. “No such thing as a free lunch,” she muttered, under her breath, as she turned towards the elevator.

 

*

The museum was packed with visitors jostling their way towards the wing with the Captain America exhibit. Darcy almost turned back at the sight. But then she remembered how busy she would be for the next two weeks. She might not get another chance to visit while it was still up, and she really did want to check out Captain America's original motorcycle, a 1942 Harley-Davidson WLA called "Liberator" that her dad used to rattle on endlessly about over dinner. She could remember so clearly his hands waving exuberantly over a plate of cooling food, his face lit up while he described the modifications made to the bike and some recently declassified record detailing an operation Cap had taken it on. He'd loved that bike, and the Captain American mythos. If he were still alive, he'd want her to go see it and report back on every last nut and bolt.

So Darcy took a few quick breaths to psyche herself up and stepped into the crowd. She handed her ticket to the attendant at the entrance, who ripped it and passed the stub back to her. Then she made her way inside. She lingered for a while in front of the bike, taking a few pictures to post online, then moved on to the central display. All of the Howling Commandos' uniforms were fitted to mannequins and as she made her way along, her eyes down-turned to read the plaque in front of each uniform describing the man who wore it, she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. She couldn't exactly say why. It almost felt like... she was being watched.

Darcy turned and peered around in every direction, but saw no one paying her particularly close attention.

Okay, weird. But probably nothing. It was a crowded room, whatever. She went back to reading and found her attention held by the mannequin directly to the right of Cap's. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

Surrendering to her reverie, she remembered the day in high school that they'd covered the Howling Commandos. AP US History II, fifth period. Directly after lunch, which meant she normally had to fight through her food coma to pay attention. She liked the class a lot, but the mid-day malaise had always hit her hard.

Not that day, though. That day she was first in the classroom, notebook ready to document whatever the tiny, ancient Mrs. Grimble had to say about Captain America and his team of heroes. She'd paid particular attention and detail to Barnes, even sketching a doodle of his face in the margins of her notes after the class had moved on to discussing the economic difficulties in post-war Germany. Her dad had teased her that night when she'd shared her notes on the Commandos with him, although afterwards he'd thanked her for teaching him some things he hadn't known by taking her and Mom out for ice cream.

She felt an elbow in her side and noticed the dirty look she was getting from the middle-aged woman standing next to her; she'd probably been standing, she supposed, for too long in front of Barnes' uniform.

She turned and moved towards a transparent display wall in the middle of the room, still half lost in thought as she gazed up at the image of Barnes' sullen, handsome face etched into the glass. She was perusing his biography on the next panel when she felt it again, that creeping sense that someone was watching her. She looked up and through the display. No one there. She peered upwards at Bucky's face again, contemplating his pout and that defiant eyebrow, before she felt the weird sensation for a third time. Pivoting on her heel, she glanced around somewhat frantically. Her eyes landed on the face of the man standing a few feet behind her.

**No, that wasn't right.**

She turned back to the display, trying to memorize his features. Then again to the man behind her. She pushed her glasses up onto her forehead, rubbed her eyes, and dropped them back down to rest on her nose again. He was still there, facing the display, but when she tilted her head in confusion his eyes slid over to her. No, her eyes were not playing tricks on her. There could no mistaking it, that was the same face. A few days worth of stubble and a pair of deadened eyes did not change the fact that the man she was looking at now was either a clone, a genetically identical descendant, or Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes himself.

What was happening? Had her mind cracked from the stress at work? Was this an extremely belated psychotic episode in reaction to the events in New Mexico or England? How could this be?

He was still staring back at her, and something in the willful, almost hostile, blankness of his eyes reminded her of Malakith. She shuddered, but took a step towards him anyway. He noted her response impassively and turned away from her, walking neither slowly nor quickly but at a pace that seemed calculated to draw no attention. He was moving back towards the entrance. No!

What should she do? Should she follow? Is this the kind of person you follow when they walk away from you? She peered through the crowd at his retreating back. Yes, she decided. This is the time when you just, somehow be brave Darcy and follow the still unbelievably attractive man who, according to the goddamn Smithsonian had died, like, seventy years ago.

“Okay Darcy, you can do this,” she whispered, “Screw your courage to the sticking place. You are the girl who rescued every single animal inside the Cuddly Paws Animal Shop from the Destroyer. You are the girl who put the whatsy stick in the ground so Malakith could die a terrible death on Fartlewhatever. You are the girl who punched stupid Bobby Malcolm in the mouth when he would not stop teasing you about your C-cups in eighth grade. Just... move your feet.”

It took her a couple more seconds of pep talk before she gathered her wits about her, and by the time she'd elbowed her way back to the entrance and out into the grand hall, she just caught sight of his broad shoulders as he passed through a side entrance across the building.

“Time to run,” she thought, disgruntled, as she picked up a light jog across the hall, “If someone could have _told_ me I was going to spot the zombie of a damn national icon this morning, I might have gone with a sports bra and some sensible shoes.”

By the time she'd cleared the side entrance's door, he was already gone. As she stood in the warm sunshine of a perfect Summer afternoon, she halfway talked herself into believing she hadn't seen anything at all.

“Okay. Okay. Just because _some_ crazy stuff has happened to me before doesn't mean all the crazy stuff is gonna happen to me. Maybe... maybe it's gonna be time for a vacation soon,” she said dazedly to herself, peering around one more time before turning and heading for the metro station.

Perhaps it was her need to believe that life was truly back to normal, perhaps it was the strong afternoon sun shining into her eyes. Either way, she didn't spot the hoodie-clad man hunched over in the vestibule of the Bank of America across the street, staring at her curiously as she wandered off.

 

*

“Back already?”

Darcy was sitting at her desk, doodling distractedly on a Post-It, and she startled at the question. She looked up to see Cute Jack standing in her doorway, short dark hair styled impeccably as always. He'd gone with relaxed-fit khakis and a plaid button-down shirt today, plus a navy blue skinny tie that really brought out his eyes. On any other day of her entire three months of working here this interaction alone would have already been worthy of a Two Cocktail Minimum Call with Jane, but today she just looked at him crossly, trying to reconcile whatever she'd been pondering with the need to behave politely.

“Hey sorry, is this a bad time?” Nervously, Jack looked around her tiny office, then back to her.

“I, uh, yeah. Sorry. I'm just in the middle of a few announcements I really want to get online before five,” Darcy smiled at him apologetically, then pointedly turned herself towards the clearly turned-off computer on her desk. He stood, confused, in the doorway for another second before quietly backing away.

“Oh hey, Jack?

“Yeah?” His head quickly popped back into view, his eyebrows raised.

“Could you close the door behind you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Screw your courage to the sticking place" is from Macbeth, hat tip to my homeboy Shakespeare.


	3. The One Where Everyone Is in Transition

Thor dropped the last of the boxes in the center of the living room with a flourish, which caused Jane to squeak, “Careful!” before slapping his arm lightly and sliding around him to pour herself a glass of water in their new kitchen. Theirs. She turned, took a sip, and looked around the airy, high-ceilinged loft.

“This is... going to be good, Thor.”

“I truly believe that here, Jane, you will find the respect you so richly deserve for that brilliant mind of yours. Vienna! Vindobona, from the Old Celtic tongue I believe. It means 'fair village', or something to the like. Shall we take to the streets, and discover its secrets for ourselves?”

Thor's enthusiasm for all of the oddities of life on Midgard could not be contained and Jane found herself catching it regardless of what they were doing. She nodded to him in agreement, grabbing her keys and following him down the building's staircase to the street below.

“It is a fine day, Jane! Is it not? It hearkens me to my youth in Asgard, when the air was thick with the scent of golden apples and Rattatosk the Squirrel would climb along the limbs of Yggdrasil so that he might spin many fine tales of Vanaheim and Nidavellir for my brother and I.” He stretched to his full height, his arms reaching up towards the warm afternoon sun, and Jane could not restrain herself from moving into his space to stretch her own arms around his torso. She sighed contentedly, her nose burrowed deep into the front of his shirt, and felt herself relax completely when his arms came down around her back, his fingers gently tracing her spine. He continued softly, “I should think what this fine day deserves is a hearty flask of Austrian ale. What say you, my ladylove?”

She leaned her chin on his sternum and raised her eyes to his face appraisingly.“Thor... have you ever tried Wiener Schnitzel?” He looked down at her, still smiling, and merely raised an eyebrow in response.

“Come on big guy, one of my colleagues recommended a place in our neighborhood that specializes in it. It's meat. They bread and fry it. But that's not why you're going to love it.”

“Oh? Praytell, dear Jane, why will I love this fried Schnitzel of Vindobona?”

“Because, Thor,” Jane smiled goofily, “Before they bread and fry it, they pound it flat with a hammer.”

Thor roared with laughter and slapped her butt playfully before taking her delicate hand in his, happily following her towards the promised land of meat and ale.

 

*

Darcy Lewis. Female. Height: 5'4”, Weight: 135 pounds. 23 years old. Vision: −0.75 (L), –0.6 (R)  
Culver University undergraduate, Class of 2012. Former unpaid intern through Science Apprenticeship Program (SAP). Mentor: Doctor Jane Foster. Graduated Summa Cum Laude, BA in Political Science.

Current residence, Columbia Heights, Washington DC, 20009. Address: 2464-2544 16th Street NW. Coordinates 38.922518, -77.035282.  
Phone number, (1) 202-867-5309  
Employee of the Smithsonian Museums Organization. Weekend volunteer for the Potomac River Cleanup Group. Daily customer at the Pret a Manger located at 1828 L St NW. Member of the Columbia Heights Planet Fitness.  
Born in Charleston, West Virginia. No siblings. Father: Francis “Frank” Lewis, deceased 2011, age 54. Lung cancer. Mother: Elaine Reynolds. Alive, age 54. Married to Harold Garrison. Current residence: South Charleston, West Virginia. Married. One step-child, Sean. Age 19.  
Known associates of interest: Thor, Doctor Jane Foster, SHIELD Agent Noelle Walters [deceased].

The soldier sighed, sitting back in his chair while he digested the scant information he'd accumulated in the past two hours. Natalia had unknowingly done him a very big favor by releasing all of those SHIELD records to the public, but she hadn't had the courtesy to un-encrypt them before doing so. It wasn't easy to rummage through the jumbled data of the leak, especially when the only information available was a striking memory of full lips, long dark hair, and sly, playful eyes.

Still, the soldier could be persistent. And patient. And as it turned out, she was in the records. The relief that had flooded his system after fully assuring himself she wasn't from his past, couldn't possibly know him, left him weak. He sank lower into the chair as he considered his options.

Despite her apparent innocence, he'd definitely been made by her.

And fair enough, because it had been stupid and impulsive to visit that museum in the middle of the day like that. He raised his flesh and bone right hand up to rub his face, and noticed it was shaking.

He was slipping. Without a handler to tell him what to do, he didn't know where to go from here. He never would have made such a careless mistake if someone had given him a direct order to visit the museum. But without the clarity that the chair's pain had brought to his mind, the unblinking competence that seemed to take over his body when given his mission parameters, he found himself at loose ends. It was like he could neither fully reassemble the pieces of his life before the train and the chair and the ice, nor could he fully access the knowledge he'd accumulated as Hydra's blade.

Even now, acknowledging the stupidity of his museum gambit had not prevented him from coming to the public library and signing out a computer under the name “Steve Rogers”. He glanced furtively around the computer bank but it was mostly empty. The few people occupying the space with him probably took him for homeless, and they wouldn't have been wrong.

The soldier needed a plan. It had been so long since he'd been fully responsible for a plan based on his own self-interests that at the thought of how he was going to survive the next month, the next week, the next 30 minutes, he felt his rickety computer chair begin pulling him down, down, down into the floor and back into that laboratory, into a different chair whose unbreakable straps rose up to secure his arms and chest before the the bite guard was shoved into his mouth and--

“Hey pal, you okay?” The old man hovering to the soldier's left flank surprised him, and what's worse, he was standing close enough that he could probably hear the machinery in his arm re-calibrating in response to the resulting spike of adrenaline. Still, the visor of his baseball cap blocked the man's view of his face and he was wearing a glove. No need to disarm or disable. He didn't _have_ to use violence here.

He just needed to close the browser, stand up, and walk out the front door. This is the first parameter of your next mission, the soldier mentally commanded himself. He sat silently for a minute longer, his right hand sweating into his jeans until he clenched his fist tightly; deeply ingrained instincts from his years with HYDRA fought desperately against the directive he'd given himself. Finally, with halting but deliberate caution, he did as he was told. He did not speak to the old man.

He stood on the street corner outside the library staring at the traffic for a moment, feeling once again lost in the tumultuous overload of sensory information and the aching loss of purpose. He turned and walked towards the back of the building, ducked into the alley behind it and pressed himself into the brick wall, behind a large green dumpster. He surveyed his surroundings as best he could with only his bare eyes and found the location sufficiently private for the time being. He lowered himself down to the ground on shaky legs. He tucked them into his body and dropped his face to hide in his knees, then succumbed to the nervous shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ratatoskr (ain't no strange fiction like old norwegian fiction)


	4. The One Where Darcy Meets Bucky

“Life is very short, and there's no ti-aiii-iiii-iime!” Darcy belted out, high stepping around her studio apartment while cradling a large mixing bowl in one arm and stirring the pancake batter with her other. “For fussing and fighting, my friend,” Here Darcy crouched into a power squat, left leg extended far in front of her, face intent with giddy concentration. “I have always thought that it's a cri-aiiii-iii-me!” She popped up again, pushing her bathrobe away from her legs for optimal performance abilities. “So I will ask,” high kick, “you once,” high kick, “again...” Darcy paused here, placing the mixing bowl on the small card table that served as her eating space, then waited for the upbeat guitar melody to kick in, “Try to see it maaayyye way!” She flung herself exuberantly in circles around her pathetically small floor space, letting off some of her pent-up nervous energy from yesterday as she sang along, both off-key and off-tempo, to the final chorus and outro of the song.

Afterwards she collapsed in an exhausted heap on the pine IKEA chair next to the card table. She'd needed that. Last night had been an endless crucible of tossing and turning, and finally some time around six am she'd given up the ghost on sleep in favor of blueberry pancakes and a Beatles sing-along.

As she stirred, she considered. She'd spent the prior evening doing some very enlightening catching up on the news, which she'd more or less abandoned post-Convergence in her need for peace of mind. 

So. James Buchanan Barnes did not die in 1944. In fact, he survived a terrible fall in the Alps and his body had been salvaged by HYDRA forces who had rehabilitated him, grafted a metal arm onto what remained of the left side of his body, and sent him out to do their killing.

This was all very bad. And the worst part of it was that it meant that the man she'd seen at the museum was likely him. This was even worse. In no small part because the flare of attraction she'd felt ignite in her belly when she'd looked at his face was going to be a definite, _definite_ no-go from here on out.

Instead: comfort food, comfort music, and resisting the urge to call Jane for advice. If Thor got wind of this, he might insist on her relocating and that was just not an option right now. No. This was not critical. He'd run away from _her_ , after all. She'd probably never see him again and if somehow the strange meeting came up in conversation, well, she'd plead the fifth.

It was just as her second batch of pancakes were puffing up nicely and she was starting to feel pretty damn proud of her grown-ass, decision-making self that the buzzer attached to her building's front door rang out in the small apartment.

 

*

Sam Wilson held the phone lightly in his outstretched hand, pushing it once again in Steve Roger's direction. “Come on man, she called to _flirt_ with me but now she really does need to talk to you.”

Steve's head rose from the document he'd been reading. “Eyes on the road, Wilson,” he scolded as he took the phone and held it to his hear. “Hi Nat. What have you got?”

“Sorry Steve, nothing concrete yet. I just wanted to check up on you.”

Steve glanced at Sam, annoyed, then answered, “I'm okay. We're following a lead in eastern Canada. Can't say it'll go anywhere, but... Gotta try anyway, right?”

“Steve...” Natasha paused, considering her next words carefully, which was almost always a bad sign, “I made a promise to that friend in Ukraine in exchange for some help with the file I got you. I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this, ask you to help when they called on me for that favor but...” She paused again.

Steve sighed, glanced out the window at the passing alpine trees on both sides of the lonely two-lane highway. “What are we talking about here?”

“It's just a fundraising gala. You go in the uniform, you shake a few hands, take some photos, and you leave. An hour, two tops. It's a room full of nice people, throwing around some money for museums, who want to meet a hero.”

He frowned, unmoved by the audible apology in her voice. “Really? After everything that's happened?”

“Believe it or not Rogers, you're actually still a pretty big deal to a lot of people.”

“When's it happening?”

“Next Friday. I'll send you the details. You still have the dummy email set up?”

“I'll go if I can,” Steve warned, “No promises, Natasha. I can't say where we'll be in a week.”

“Just try, Steve. Consider it as... doing _me_ a favor.”

 

*

Bucky Barnes was standing in front of her apartment door. His face was distorted by the the fish-eye peephole but she would know those eyes, that nose, that mouth if Picasso himself had painted them. Was he the one who had rang her bell downstairs, out front? How did he know that this door was hers? Did he think she was someone else? Probably, right?

She took a step back, panic slowing her cognitive abilities to a sluggish crawl, then jumped when he knocked on the door again. Through the door she heard a quiet, muffled, “Darcy? Are you in there?”

Oh God oh God oh God. Oh this was definitely absolutely positively not good. Oh brother.

“I really don't want to break down your door. Can you please let me in?”

This softly spoken threat propelled Darcy to action, and she flipped the lock then pulled the door open as far as the chain would allow it. About three inches. No one was ever killed through a three inch gap, right? She took a step back, just in case.

He was looking down at her apprehensively and when she finally lifted her eyes to meet his, he shuffled backwards in surprise, as though he'd just felt the same shock she had. He lifted his right hand and ran it through his lank, greasy hair.

“This looks... I know you're scared. Can you please... not be? I don't want... I just need to ask you a couple questions. You saw me at the museum yesterday, I know you recognized me. Can we just... talk? For a minute?” His face returned to apprehension and then crumpled into doubt as Darcy remained a good foot from the door, gaping at him silently through the three inch-wide gap.

“Okay. Maybe you take some time to... I can come back in a little bit, how 'bout? Thirty minutes, okay? We really need to talk and then I'll leave you alone. I promise.”

Still, Darcy, she of the quick wit and sharp tongue, found herself unable to speak, and judging for himself that she had no plans to any time in the near future, Barnes nodded decisively then turned to leave. Darcy slammed the door shut and before she could even stop herself, a hysterical giggle escaped from her chest. What in the what was even...?

She was interrupted from that thought by the smell of something burning, and cried out “Aw, shit!” while rushing over to her stove-top, where her once beautiful batch of pancakes had been transformed into petrified, charred hockey pucks. She lifted the pan with the pancakes and threw the whole mess into the sink, shouting “Shit!” and then, “Shit shit shit!” again for good measure, because it felt good to say. She stared at the catastrophe in front of her for a minute, her mind racing. Then she wrapped her robe more tightly around her waist, tied the belt securely, and loosened the chain before pulling the door fully open.

Barnes was sitting on the top step of the descending staircase in front of her, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned when he heard the door open and they made eye contact again. Darcy rolled her eyes, sighed at the undoubtedly stupid thing she was about to do, and nodded her head back towards the apartment. He rose and wiped his right hand on his pant leg, then brushed by her as he passed through the doorway. He smelled terrible but still, just the barest touch of his elbow catching on the sleeve of her bathrobe had her flushed and embarrassed. This was definitely going to be a disaster.

 

*

He'd sat himself in the terrible IKEA chair so she perched awkwardly on the very edge of the futon, which at this moment she had just noticed was still pulled out into a bed and was also, in fact, unmade. Lovely. He looked around her apartment dispassionately, and it felt to Darcy like he was taking notes as his eyes scanned from floor to ceiling and across her scant possessions.

“Nice pictures,” he tried. It sounded like he'd meant it to be neutral but it came out sort of bitter, and Darcy fought back against the trickle of pity seeping into her emotions. She turned to the wall behind the futon bed, plastered haphazardly with Polaroids and photos taken on disposable cameras. It was a sloppy, unorganized collage, but it featured mom and dad and Jane and Thor and Erik and her friends from college and her best friend from her hometown, Margaret Windjammer and her childhood pet, a basset hound named Floyd, and it made Darcy feel safe. She turned back to look at the man in her apartment, and his eyes were glazed over with a longing so palpable that she felt an ache in her throat, the kind that threatened imminent tears.

“Are you gonna kill me?” She winced as soon as the words left her mouth. Darcy Lewis, she thought, you are a raging idiot.

“N-no. I...no. Please don't think that. I don't want... that.”

“What, um, then...” This was literally the most awkward moment of her entire wildly awkward twenty three years of existence. “What d'y'want, man?”

“I need help,” he whispered.

“Aren't you like, an international assassin guy?”

“The thing about wetwork, is that when everyone knows who you are, you.... you gotta find a new day job,” he mumbled. He was looking at his hands, resting atop his thighs, both clenched around his baseball cap.

“I, oh. Yeah. Did you really do all those things, the things they said on the news?”

“Yes. But also no. Mostly yes, though.”

Darcy blinked. “I don't, like, what am I supposed to do with that?!” she asked, mostly to herself, before rising quickly and moving across the room to scrub at the scorched pan.

“I didn't really get a choice in the matter, I guess,” he said in a flat voice. She pondered that, scrubbing the pan viciously with her back to him, then dropped it and whipped around.

“Okay, I'll help you. I don't think I really understand who are you, but I'm gonna help you 'cuz of who you were.”

He looked up at her pleadingly, and suddenly she realized that by coming to stand by the kitchen sink not only was she in arm's reach of him, she was almost touching him. She pushed herself back against the counter and crossed her arms. “I'm gonna go get dressed. What do you need?”

He scanned her place again like he was looking for something, swallowed hard, then took her in from her bare feet up to her ratty ponytail before answering, “I guess I was just...wondering if you had any burned blueberry pancakes?”

 

*

Sixteen pancakes (him), three glasses of orange juice (also him) and two cups of coffee later (her, she'd picked at her food nervously but hadn't really been able to eat anything) they were sitting stiffly on her futon. Both of them faced forward, and Darcy Anne Lewis, for only the second time in her entire life but also for the _second_ time today, found herself unable to think of a single blessed thing to say. So finally, she just said the thing that was bothering her.

“How'd you know where I live? And my name?”

“SHIELD's files on you were in the leak.”

“But how'd you _find_ me, in the files? There must've been tens of thousands of files on people of interest, employees, enemies, various and assorted monsters that have attacked us in the past three years...?”

“I don't... really...” he started, glancing over at her nervously. She waited him out patiently. “Uh, I don't have a lot going on in my life right now. Just... hiding, basically. Lots of free time.” Oh no, there it was. The pity, again.

Before she could respond he cleared his throat, and obviously trying to change the flow of the conversation, asked, “Why did you open your door again, for me?”

“Well, if we're being honest? I've studied enough history to know that the media cannot always be trusted to fully present all the facts to the public. Neither can the government, for that matter. So the thought had crossed my mind that there might be more to the story than simply: guy is wartime hero who fights with Captain-fucking-America for truth, justice and the American way, guy disappears, guy becomes robotic death-dealing ninja assassin. Like, maybe a few unconnected dots in there.”

He smiled, or at least tried to, kind of a grimace really, but it was the first time his face had shown any positive emotion since she he'd entered her apartment and she found that she really liked the way the outer corners of his eyes crinkled just so when he did that.

“Also, even though you're looking a little rough right now, you are still, like, devastatingly hot. Just FYI.”

“FYI?”

“For your information. Also for your information, if you're, uh, interested? I have a shower over there. And an extra towel and soap and shampoo. I don't have an extra toothbrush but you could use your finger if you wanted. And also, you could give me those clothes and I could wash 'em. All of this is FYI, by the way.”

“FYI,” he repeated softly. He looked down, swallowed hard again in that way that made it feel like her heart would beat its self out of her chest, and nodded slightly. “Thanks,” he whispered, then leaned down to unlace his leather boots and pull them off. He rose, towering above her. Without another word he turned and walked into the bathroom and about three minutes later, his bare flesh arm reached out with a handful of clothes.

“You get the shower temperature okay?” she asked, grabbing the bundle and willing herself not to perv out at the thought of his naked body on the other side of the door. “Yeah, it's fine,” was the muted response.

Darcy threw his clothes along with some of her own into the machine. She knocked on the door again and called, “Hey, you can use my bath robe if you want. Sorry I don't have any giant man-shaped clothing.” She got no response and turned to the futon, pulling it into a couch position and shoving her bedding into one of the unused kitchenette cabinets. She plugged the HDMI cable from her computer into the TV, and pulled up her Netflix queue.

She passed over to the window to peer up at the sky. There were a few high, fluffy grey clouds gathering. Enough to justify a lazy day spent watching TV. Not that she was looking for excuses to stick around and spend time with him, or anything. Not that she was nervous to leave him alone. It was _her_ place. This was America! Land of the Free! She could do what she wanted.

Darcy blinked skeptically back at her reflection in the window. “You're not fooling anyone in this entire apartment, Lewis,” she muttered mulishly.

A few minutes later, just as Darcy was putting the finishing touches on what was perhaps her best TV binge-watching blanket nest ever, Barnes emerged from the bathroom with a cloud of steam trailing him. Oh, she thought. I played the whole “hi, I think you're hot” card wa-aay too early.

Thankfully the shabby Iron Man-themed terrycloth robe was full length, although it still only reached slightly below his knees it kept him otherwise decent. But his hair was clean and combed back, and he'd shaved. He smelled like her shampoo and her shaving cream and her soap. He had definitely used her razor, the one that had touched her legs, on his face. She swallowed, gulped, comically loud, like some kind of Looney Tunes character. He sat down on the couch beside her and, seeming to screw up his courage, looked up to meet her gaze. Darcy's jaw was still hanging open. He reached up and gently pushed it back up into her face, smiling sadly at her. Way, way too early.

Attempting feebly to pull herself out of her epic oglefest, she pointed her remote control at the TV and asked, “Can I interest you in like, a day of doing nothing but watching television? Maybe some comedy? What are your feelings on Friends? Would you consider yourself more of a Joey or a Ross? You're definitely not a Chandler. Maybe a Gunther? I'm obviously a Phoebe. But maybe with a little bit of Rachel mixed in?”

His eyebrows pulled down in confusion but he continued smiling sadly at her, accepting his half of the blankets when she offered and mumbling, “Friends are good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darcy's singing "We Can Work It Out". Relevant, no?
> 
> I consider myself to be a Marcel, by the way.


	5. The One with All the Bonding

Late Saturday afternoon, while making a CVS run for snacks, multivitamins (dude definitely looked a little gaunt in the face without that stubble), and some Sleepytime tea, she found herself wandering down the hygiene aisle. If you'd asked her what she was doing there, she probably would have blurted out “Nothing!” and hurried away, but since no one was there to judge her she threw a neutral-smelling bar of soap, a new toothbrush, men's shaving gel, deodorant and a new razor in her basket. Moving to the next aisle, she also grabbed a pack of men's socks and boxer-briefs. At the checkout she groaned when she reviewed the items on the counter but made no attempt to remove anything and in fact, in one split second that she would later attribute to the insanity of the day's events, considered going back for one of the boxes of condoms hanging in the back of the store.

Uh, no Darcy. Ridiculous. Get a grip.

He was sleeping, his chest rising and falling evenly, when she returned. He was buried in the blanket nest on the futon and although she tried to close the front door quietly he heard it anyway and sat up, ram-rod straight. He looked somehow both obscenely hot with his broad chest exposed where the robe had fallen open and utterly ridiculous in that the robe's hood draped over his face in a faux-Iron Man mask. He pushed it back and waved his left hand, still clad in his leather driving glove, at her.

She threw him a bag of chips, a bottle of water from the fridge plus the bottle of vitamins then grabbed some roasted pumpkin seeds and set up the kettle for herself before returning to the futon nest.

“It's raining like a motherfucker out there, so you're welcome for taking the long and terrible journey to procure these rations, man,” she chided good-naturedly as she skipped the end credits to get to the next episode. “You're pretty into Friends, huh?

“These people are insane,” he croaked groggily, taking two of the multivitamins with a deep pull of water before ripping open the bag of chips and devouring several handfuls.

“Oh yes. Very true. Believe it or not, there was a time when this was like, must see television. Seriously, that's what we all called it. As in, people scheduled their social lives around being able to watch this show every week.”

He did that smile-attempt thing again. “When I was a kid, we did the same thing. Only with the radio. Me and my sister Rebecca and my folks, we'd gather 'round our old RCA Radiola every Saturday at noon and listen, totally silent, to Let's Pretend. Full of kings and queens and magic and other stuff we didn't ever think could be real. Huh. We planned our weekends around it, just like you said. It was our family's favorite program and sometimes we'd get into debates at the supper table about what was gonna happen next wee-” he halted mid-word in his story and looked over at Darcy in alarm.

“That sounds like a really great memory, Bucky,” she said quietly.

“I can't believe I... even remember that. I didn't, I can't, I... I didn't remember that I had a sister, until right this second,” he gasped. Darcy was at a complete loss of what to do, so she gently took his right hand and brushed her thumb over his knuckles, back and forth, in a slow, rhythmic pattern. He closed his eyes and Darcy had this terrible certainty that if he started crying she'd crawl into his lap to try and comfort him. His fingers closed over hers. After a minute or so, he composed himself. He opened his eyes and gave her a watery half-smile, before turning and resting against the back of the futon, his gaze and his body language telling her that the conversation was over.

He didn't let go of her hand, though.

 

*

“Lewis? Everything okay?” Larson was at the doorway of her office, wherein she was gasping for breath as she dropped her bag on her desk and squatted down below it to switch on her PC. “Hey, take a minute, breathe, what's goin' on?”

“I'm so sorry Mr. Larson,” she wheezed between gasps for air, “my alarm didn't go off this morning and I ran all the way from the metro to try and get here on time and I haven't had any coffee, I just don't even know what happened and...”

“Hey, okay, breathe, Lewis! It was a mistake, huh? Hey, it's Monday. Mistakes Monday. It's only twenty minutes. These things happen sometimes. It's okay. You can catch up with the day soon enough, can't you?” He peered at her with concern. “Get out of jail free card, just this once, alright?”

“Thanks. Sorry again. Ugh. Sorry.” She winced, seemingly unable to stop herself from apologizing.

“No problemo. Get to work Lewis, and let us never speak of this unforgivable indiscretion ever again.”

He winked, then backed into the hallway and headed off in the direction of his office. She grinned slightly at him then settled into her chair, breath evening out as she turned to her work.

As her computer booted up she played idly with the idea of having told her boss the truth. “Hey Mr. Larson, sorry for oversleeping but I woke up in my tiny, rinky-dink bed with six feet, two hundred thirty pounds of super soldier assassin man wrapped around me and his beautiful fucking face looked so relaxed and peaceful in sleep that I laid there and stared at him like a lovesick teenager for a whole hour. Also, his incredibly large boner was rubbing against my leg and the implosion in my panties left me temporarily paralyzed. My b!”

She winced again, and shook her head. Okay, it had been a very surprising turn of events, she could admit that. On Saturday they'd passed out after competitively tossing Swedish Fish into each other's mouths and compiling reasons the Friends were truly terrible people late into the night. But on Sunday, somehow, she'd woken feeling rested and comfortable on the opened, made up futon bed with no Bucky in sight.

She'd felt a moment of panic that had eased when she rolled over, shoved her glasses onto her face, and spotted him on the floor, stretching the creased, flannel-lined cotton of her dad's old sleeping bag to its limits. He must have dug it out from where she'd shoved it in the very back of her cramped closet. She'd felt a warm, comforting calm wash over her as she'd laid there watching him sleep, knowing that he'd gone out of his way to respect her space while making sure she was comfortable when she was out cold.

The whole weekend had been mostly platonic and surprisingly peaceful. He'd taught her how to fry an egg for breakfast on Sunday, something she'd never bothered to learn because she'd always eaten them scrambled growing up. They'd spent the afternoon playing card games and shyly probing to learn more about each other, and later, long after sunset and multiple promises that they'd have the auditorium to themselves, she'd even talked him into going to a late-night screening at her local movie theater.

Darcy thought that her new favorite food in the whole world might be eggs served sunny side up. And she might get her ticket stub for The Lego Movie framed and hanged on her wall. No reason. It was just a nice-looking ticket, was all.

Oh, Darcy Anne, you got it bad girlie, she could hear the internalization of her mother's voice scolding. This is gonna end in heartbreak, child, mark my words.

Okay, thank you oh sagacious one, please shut up now, she responded mentally. Course correction, that's what she needed. She had apparently spent the weekend in some kind of alternate dimension where her sweet, slightly-damaged live-in boyfriend just wanted to snuggle (but only while sleeping) and hang out doing nothing with her. Now she was back here in the real world, and when she returned to her apartment this evening, well... she would cross that bridge when she came to it. For now, though, these photos of the new plants in the Native American Landscape section at the Gardens were not going to post themselves.

 

*

Barnes' eyes opened to an empty apartment. He sat up hastily. He'd slept through Darcy waking up and leaving? He hadn't slept through anything, barely slept at all, in the last month; the force of his surprise knocked him back down again. He stared at her ceiling in wonder, letting his eyes trace over the pale, glow-in-the-dark stars she'd stuck up there.

They'd slept in this bed together. He hadn't meant for it to happen. He'd pushed himself up and out of the quiet moment they'd been sharing under her duvet after returning from the picture show, when he'd noticed her drifting off. Had been ready to unroll the sleep sack and reconcile himself with the floor, still more comfortable than any of his makeshift sleeping spots since he'd walked away from Rogers all those weeks ago.

But she'd opened her eyes when he shifted away from her and rested her hand on his arm with a look that was so earnest, so tender. And he'd wanted to stay in her bed, really. Had relished the feel of her small hand brushing up and down his arm soothingly. When was the last time he'd been touched like that? With kindness? He couldn't remember. His thoughts drifted aimlessly on and his gaze slid, once again, to the jumble of pictures tacked to the wall beside her bed.

This girl had a life, and a family, and friends, and he was doing a very bad thing by staying here. He was infringing on her time and her space and he was using their mutually shared attraction to avoid doing what he should be doing, going to ground. Living on the streets, hand to mouth. Dying in a cold, dark hole somewhere, undeserving of anyone's help.

He sighed deeply, and rose from the bed. He pulled the two halves back into a couch shape and folded the linens precisely, then placed them on the coffee table. He inspected his messy surroundings. The least he could do, he supposed, in return for his new friend's gracious hospitality, was straighten up this dump.

 

*

Darcy returned home on Monday evening with a brown paper bag full of all the supplies she would need to make Hobo Beans and Sausage Casserole, a depression-era dish Bucky had self-deprecatingly admitted to her was his favorite meal from his youth. She fumbled with the keys at the door for a moment, then jumped when it opened magically for her. He was standing to the side, one arm reaching out for the grocery bag, and he gave her what looked to be pretty damn close to a genuine smile as she entered the apartment.

She smiled back and asked about his day before turning and fully taking in the scene before her, barely hearing his answer. Everything was spotless. Her bookshelf, standing next to the TV not-crookedly for the first time in its pathetic life, held an alphabetized collection of all her books. When she'd left this morning, they'd still been sitting in a box in the closet. Her kitchenette gleamed. Every surface, in fact, was dust-free, including all the corners of her previously dustbunny-strewn wood floor. Her towels and sheets and curtains were hanging from the drying rack erected in the center of her apartment. Even her succulents' pots were cleared of the dead leaves they'd been dropping lately, sitting neatly on dust-free window sills. 

She turned back around to look at him in silent awe. The windows, wiped clean of water stains from the weekend's rain showers, were fully open and the sound of the kids playing hockey in the street below floated up between them. He grinned sheepishly and ducked his head, running the fingers of his right hand nervously through his hair before turning to the bag and beginning to transfer its contents to her fridge.

That was when she noticed the gleam of his silver left hand, where it peeked out below his shirt sleeve. He wasn't wearing the glove. Her heart kicked hard inside her chest yet again and she turned back to the window to hide the emotion she was sure he would be able to read on her face. Oh yeah. She was in way over her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Let%27s_Pretend
> 
> Let's Pretend was a real thing and to be honest, I think it sounds pretty dope.


	6. The One Where Bucky Takes a Field Trip

Tuesday had begun much more smoothly, as Darcy woke to find Bucky back in the sleeping bag on the floor beside her. She had felt a physical ache at the loss of his body against hers but pushed down the longing and rose to start the day. The smell of coffee had roused him and they'd chatted quietly over buttered toast before she left. She didn't ask what he would do with his day, because she had so enjoyed the surprise of coming home to find out the day before. He did ask when she'd be home, and asked if he could cook her something special, something from his youth. 

She passed off some cash to him before swallowing the last of her coffee and then, almost unthinkingly, went in for a kiss on his cheek before leaving. He stared up at her intently from his chair as she leaned into his space unconsciously, and he swallowed heavily but had otherwise remained motionless before she blinked, raised her hand for a high five instead, and turned for the door.

 

*

Bucky scrolled through page after page of the New York Times' microfiche, patiently scanning the text before turning the dial again, having not found what he was looking for. The cool air of the small viewing room was soothing after the oppressive humidity of the short walk to the library. He kept skimming. He'd started about an hour and a half ago, with the obituaries in 1944, although his mind recoiled anxiously at the thought of her having died so young. He really hoped she'd stayed in the city, if only because otherwise he'd be searching for a needle in a hopelessly vast haystack. He couldn't believe his luck that this library even had such an extensive archive of New York papers dating back so far. His "luck" held out because two editions later, he struck pay dirt.

> Rebecca Valentina Barnes, 65, died peacefully in her sleep on January 8, 1985 in Brooklyn, NY. She was born on December 27, 1919 in Brooklyn, New York to William and Luciana Barnes. Her brother, James Buchanan Barnes, was declared KIA while serving for the 107th and later Captain America's Howling Commandos Unit in the European theater during World War II. 
> 
> In 1949 she married Phillip Lock: the marriage ended in divorce. In 1972 she married John Warner and became step-mother to his three children; Alice, Nathan, and Thomas.
> 
> Rebecca began her professional life as a clerk for the law offices of Wolfram & Hart in Brooklyn, NY but left the firm when she was admitted to New York University Law School in 1965. She graduated with her J.D. in 1969 and after passing the bar in 1970, she rejoined Wolfram & Hart as junior partner. She was made partner in 1971, senior partner in 1975 and held this position until her death.
> 
> She will be remembered for professional integrity as well as her ceaseless commitment to community outreach through her work with local soup kitchens and homeless shelters. Rebecca is survived by her husband John Warner, her step-children Alice and Nathan, and her grand-daughter Ruby. Funeral services will be privately held. Memorial donations may be made in Rebecca's name to the Tillary Street Women's Shelter, 200 Tillary St, Brooklyn, NY 11201.

When he finished reading, Bucky let out a shuddering sigh, wiped the tears from his face, and turned off the microfiche machine. He remained sitting in the dark, silent closet for a long time before he finally pulled his cap down low over his brow, left the room, walked out of the library. The harsh mid-day sun made him squint as his eyes adjusted. He wandered through Darcy's neighborhood for two more hours, moving methodically up one street then down the next. He let his feet take control while his mind reeled from the deluge of old memories and new information. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him.

 

*

The smell of something tantalizingly familiar drifted out to meet Darcy when she opened the door to her place that evening, and she dropped her bag on the couch then rushed excitedly to the large pot sitting atop the burner. Lifting the lid, she had to bite her lip to keep from squealing at the rush of nostalgia; a pot full of chicken and dumplings bubbled merrily inside.

“Bucky?” she called out into the empty apartment.

“Out here,” was the low response that drifted in from outside. She crossed over to the window and stuck her head out and to the right, finding herself nose to nose with Bucky. He was sitting with one leg pulled up into his body, the other dangling over the edge of the fire escape's platform. He was holding a cigarette casually in his right hand. When she made to climb over her spiky plants and out onto the escape to join him he held out his vibranium hand in assistance. “You smoke?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

“No, I um, I lost someone to lung cancer. My dad... he was a smoker.”

“Sorry,” he said, taking one last pull and crushing the cigarette on the metal railing to his other side, away from her.

“It's okay,” she breathed out, leaning back beside him against the brick outer wall. “You made chicken and dumplings.”

“I hope so. If I did it right. I was trying to go from memory, so no promises on the quality.” He smiled wryly, glancing at her from the corners of his eyes while keeping his face trained towards the quiet streets below. A young couple, two statuesque women with their hands in each other's back pockets, laughed quietly at an inside joke as they strolled together down the opposite side of the street and below them, her neighbor Hiram McDaniels leaned patiently on his cane while his cat Mittens sniffed derisively at her leash before exploring the contents of an overturned trash can.

“My mom used to make me chicken 'n dumplings. When I'd had a bad day, or was feeling sick,” she said quietly into the evening air.

He turned his face fully to consider her now. He looked down at her lips for so long she thought maybe he was going to kiss her and she sat completely still in fear of spooking him. Kiss me, she thought. This is the moment when you kiss me. But he just smiled, a real smile that even reached his sad eyes, and relaxed back into the wall.

“Mine too,” he murmured.

 

*

After dinner that night she'd asked him to pick out a movie for them, something from his past that he wanted to share with her. He'd huffed and insisted she not watch while he browsed, so she took a quick shower and when she returned to the futon with her hair still wrapped in a towel, she peered curiously at the TV screen to see he'd selected It Happened One Night.

“Oh, I've heard of this one, I think!”

He fidgeted. “Have you seen it? We can...”

“No, no, I've never watched it. Gimme the elevator pitch.”

He'd stared at her blankly so she prompted, “Sell it to me in under a minute.”

At that he chuckled, then said, “Okay. See, Clark Gable is the _man_ , right? He's a rascal, but he's also a damn fine reporter. And Claudette Colbert, she's gorgeous with these gams that just go on and on... Yeah. But she's a spoiled debutante type. And when they meet, she's on the run from her no-good husband who just wants her money. So he promises to help her sort herself out but only if she gives him a scoop, 'cause he's a reporter but he's outta work, see? But then... they fall in love along the way. You know how it goes.”

She smiled while she watched him speak. His Brooklyn accent got stronger whenever he talked about things from his past. “Okay, I'm game. Cue it up and let it roll. Fast-talking molls and gangsters with hearts of gold, here we come!” He laughed again, and the sound was so beautiful to her ears she could hardly be blamed for scooting across the couch and resting her head against his right arm. He lifted it automatically in response, and she sank into his side as his arm rested on her shoulders. She felt a tug on the towel and then his hand began gently untangling her still-wet hair. They stayed like that, not verbally acknowledging the closeness they both felt but unwilling to give it up, for the duration of the film. Afterwards he sighed, leaning his cheek down to rest atop her head.

“They just don't make 'em like that anymore, do they?”

She gazed up at him, taking in the sharp angle of his nose, his long dark lashes, his dimpled chin.

“No, they really don't.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof. When the going gets tough, the tough need to watch screwball comedies and eat comfort food.
> 
> Also, I imagine Becca Barnes as a Peggy-esque (Olson or Carter) badass who fought her way up the food chain of her law firm and made the courtroom her playground. That's my canon.
> 
> Also also, I can't imagine Bucky is a smoker, but I feel like he might remember doing it during the war and buy a pack because the memory is soothing.


	7. The One Where Things Get Complicated

Wednesday had been uneventful for her, although Larson had showed up right after lunch to gently scold her for a few late postings she'd made that morning that should've been made the day before. She had apologized and cringed internally; it felt like all she'd done this week was apologize for being hare-brained and erratic. Poor Larson was too nice a guy to really call her on it, but she needed to keep it together here. Yes, something was definitely happening between her and Barnes. It felt like... like it could be big. Important. But this job was _also_ important, and for the first time in her life, Darcy needed to figure out the ol' work-life balancing act.

Jesus, what a cliché, she'd mused to herself as she sat in the office break-room eating leftover chicken and dumplings. Maybe I should go buy a few Cosmo's to get advice.

She'd resolved to stay late as penance for the early-week slump, and didn't make it home until some time around eight. The apartment was empty when she got there, no sign of Bucky on the fire escape or in the bathroom. She'd even pathetically checked the closet and under the futon, as though perhaps he'd just been playing a game of hide-and-seek he'd failed to inform her about beforehand.

Sinking down into the stupid, uncomfortable IKEA chair, she'd tried to quell her agitation. The name of the game, she'd learned in the last four days of living with Bucky, was patience. Just... let him come to you. He's a good man, and he wouldn't run out on... this... without a word, Darcy. He wouldn't do that to you.

Her patience was rewarded when thirty minutes later he walked through the front door, carrying two plastic bags teeming with Chinese food boxes.

“Uh, hey. I wanted to cook for you again but the... the day just got away from me, I guess. So I thought maybe I'd look for some food in your neighborhood, and I found this great Chinese place...”

“Which one?” she interrupted.

“Great Wall Szechuan House, I think?"

“Oh yeah, they're not bad. Well done, sergeant,” she teased.

He nodded and placed the bags on the table. “I didn't know what you liked so I got, about, half the menu I think. But Chinese food leftovers are definitely...”

“The best leftovers,” she finished.

“Yeah,” he laughed, “So I figured you wouldn't mind.”

“I don't mind at all. I appreciate your commitment to feeding me. Hey, I don't suppose you've ever heard of a little movie called Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure?”

“I got nothin', doll. Elevator pitch?”

“Okay, so. The fate of the world depends on two dummies getting a good grade on their high school history presentation, so this, like, all-powerful being heads back in time to lend the boys his time machine and make sure they don't mess up their project or the future. I feel like you'd really empathize with it, what with the time travel and everything.”

“I didn't exactly time travel, though. I've experienced the twentieth century,” he replied in a carefully neutral voice.

“Yeah but not how it deserved to be experienced. It's just a silly movie though. Who knows, it might help you catch up with us here in the twenty-first century?”

“Sure, why not. I trust your judgment.” 

“Even after the Friends marathon?”

He laughed. “Yeah. Even after that.”

 

*

By the time they were ready to go to bed, Darcy felt truly terrible. She'd aimed for a light and funny atmosphere with Bill and Ted, and that had basically fallen apart when the movie's humor went over like a lead balloon.

It's not like Bucky was going to yell at her for picking a movie that brought up dark shit for him, but then again he'd barely smiled while they were watching and was even more reticent than usual afterwards. An hour later, still unable to pull any real conversation from him, she suggested that they take a late-night walk. As they strolled along the quiet, street-lamp lit paths of the nearby park he pulled her hand into his and by the time they returned to her apartment, he seemed less rattled. As she began getting ready for bed, he moved towards the closet to grab the sleeping bag.

“Wait,” she blurted out around the toothbrush in her mouth, then immediately regretted it because she could think of no logical reason why she would need for him to sleep in her bed with her although she wanted him there terribly. He looked back at her, waiting, and she fumbled for something to say. “Uh, I um, I had this terrible nightmare last night. I know how lame this sounds but could you, like, keep me company tonight?”

“In your bed,” he clarified, his voice flat but noticeably deeper.

“Ye-yeah. In my bed.”

They both stood there, facing each other; his nostrils flared as he looked and looked and just _looked_ at her, inscrutably. And Darcy kept brushing her teeth and forcing herself to return his gaze calmly. Finally she broke, shrugged at him, and went to the bathroom to spit out her toothpaste and rinse her mouth, then wash her face. When she returned to the other room he had stripped off his pants and shirt and was standing next to the bed. Now he was avoiding her eyes but he seemed slightly out of breath.

“Inside or outside?” she asked lightly, although she already knew the answer.

“Outside,” he muttered.

She crawled onto the bed, kicking the blanket down as the night was oppressively hot, then slipping under her cotton top sheet before turning to find he had slipped in behind her, now visibly breathing heavily.

“Is this okay?” she asked softly, “If it's not okay you don't have to sleep here.”

He curled his body inwards toward hers, then raised his eyes slowly to meet hers. He watched her for half a second, kept his eyes on her face as the cool metallic fingers of his left hand slowly brushed down her arm before reaching to grab her by the waist, on the sensitive skin under her rib cage, and pull her body into his.

There was no stopping this train now, she figured, as she arched her neck up to place her lips on his. Both of their eyes were still open and the moment stretched to its tensest, most awkward and fragile breaking point before he sighed, his eyes closing, and bit her lower lip softly until she opened her mouth to him. He adjusted his head slightly, his tongue dancing with hers, and his mechanized hand slid around her back to grab her plentiful right butt cheek.

Oh God, this was feeling like so, so much more than just making out with some guy. They lay there kissing, learning each other with their hands, and already her mind heaved with nostalgia for this perfect moment between them, heavy with the knowledge that it would go on ringing like a bell in her senses for all the rest of her days.

Fuck.

He pulled his head back, letting them both drag in some much-needed oxygen and just when she was about to speak, he pushed himself up and onto her, rolling her onto her back and settling between her thighs as he kissed her so thoroughly she honestly forgot the time and the date and the year and maybe even her own name, for a split second. She felt his erection through the thin cotton of his briefs, her underwear, and her Culver University track shorts. Could feel the heat of his skin through her thin t-shirt.

She reveled in the contact of his skin on hers, one hand on her ass and the other gently supporting her neck, as she ground up onto him. When he rolled them both back onto their sides, and hitched her thigh up around his hip while sliding his own between her legs, she whimpered. She didn't want to be a girl who whimpered, but there you had it. He placed his metal hand on her neck, looked at her solemnly, thumb gently stroking her jaw, and whispered, “Sleep.” He tucked his face down into her right clavicle and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, the pattern of his breath against her skin evened out and still Darcy lay there, her lungs hitching on every inhale and her cunt throbbing from the direct contact with his thigh. For a long time after he'd settled into that deep, slow rhythm of sleep-breathing, she stared up at the neon stars on her ceiling while rubbing her right hand over Bucky's deeply scarred shoulder blade; finally her mind and body relaxed and she too fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

*

Jane Foster frowned down at her body. The water was starting to turn cool. She had finished rinsing her hair but remained in the shower, trying to figure out what was different. It was her breasts. There was something... they were slightly swollen, and tender when she gently pressed her fingers against them. She shifted her hands down to her stomach, and onto her mons. Could she be...? No, that wasn't possible. She was on birth control. Birth control worked on Aesir, right?

She and Thor had discussed it one afternoon, the idea of having children, over a nice bottle of Zweigelt. They'd agreed it was a definite possibility. Some day. But Jane felt she was years away from being in a place professionally where she could take the time away from her work, and Thor agreed. He'd added, she recalled as she returned to pressing her fingers into her breasts while occasionally hissing at an especially sore area, that he wanted to ensure there was a more secure peace between the realms before they brought a royal heir into Asgard.

Which had lead to a whole new vein of discussion, about where and how exactly their hypothetical offspring would be raised. It had led to a fairly heated debate that seemed to shift effortlessly, in an instant, into an actual argument. 

No, there were a lot of difficult decisions they'd need to make before they were ready to take that step. She might even want to get married first. Jane didn't consider herself conventional by any means, but she knew it would make her mother happy to see her go the traditional route for once in her life. 

In the end, after they'd retreated to separate rooms to cool off for an hour, they were able to at least agree on this shared truth: they had a long way to go before they could even begin thinking about children. The resulting make-up sex and deeper understanding of Thor's perspective left Jane grateful for the argument, and maybe even a little more excited about their far off future. And if the roughness with which Thor had thrust her prone body across the kitchen table was anything to judge by, he was pretty excited about it too.

She sighed at the memory. She was probably getting her period soon. Maybe PMS symptoms change with age, she hypothesized. In any case, she had an appointment with an OBGYN next month, she could ask about it then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, Chinese food leftovers = Breakfast of Champions.


	8. The One That's All Like "Bow-Chicka-Bow-Bow"

The minute Darcy walked into her apartment on Thursday evening, limbs aching from a long day cooped up in her office and then an equally long afternoon spent posting flyers around town with her river clean-up group, she knew it was on. The tension was thick enough to stop her in her tracks, after dropping her bag carelessly on the floor and meeting Bucky's eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed, which he had not bothered to make, in just his briefs, bent over with his head in his hands. He had turned his head to regard her when she'd entered the apartment and now sat calmly watching her. Again, with the looking. No speaking, just flared nostrils and his usually plush lips pulled together in a tight line.

She'd left without waking him that morning, needing time to think about all of this before she made any big decisions. Darcy knew she could talk a good game, but she was not a love 'em and leave 'em type. She had needed to check in with her head before she proceeded with her heart.

She stared back now, slowly reaching down to grab the hem of her shirt and pull it over her head.

“I, um, I want you to touch me. If you want to,” she offered, before reaching down to unbutton her dark jeans. He stood and advanced towards her, walking so aggressively she backed up into the wall behind her. He followed, and lowered his hands to the waistline of her pants. He looked down at his hands, the left's fingers curling around the waistband and pulling it away from her belly, the right fiddling with the button above the zipper. Finally, he met her eyes. Another rubber band moment stretched between them, infinite and ephemeral.

“I want to touch you,” his voice rasped in her ear as he leaned forward, pressing her harder into the wall. He lowered his mouth to her cheek, a sweet kiss landing chastely there. He lifted the frames of her glasses and gently pulled them off her face, folding them carefully and setting them on the coffee table next to him. Then, another kiss landed on the opposite cheek. Her pants unbuttoned and unzipped, he pushed them and her underwear over her hips and down her legs with shaking hands. She stepped up and out of each leg when his hands reached her ankles, then kicked the clothing away. 

He stood up again quickly and shucked his briefs jerkily down his legs before cupping her breasts through her bra, sliding his hands along the band to pull her forward, and unclasp the garment as he stared, silently, at her breasts. He slid the straps down her arms and kicked that away too when it landed on the floor between them. 

They eyed each other, giving up the pretense now of not admiring the other's body; they were laid irreversibly bare to one another. Bucky moved first, leaning down, into her, placing the insoles of his feet against the the outer edges of hers so that the contact between them started at their feet, their legs pressed together so the hair on his shins tickled hers, to their torsos where his weeping dick pressed insistently into her belly and his chest against hers pressed her breasts up towards her chin, to their arms. He'd grabbed her hands in his own and pulled them up above her head, pressing his own arms into hers and touching her completely.

Darcy felt herself coming undone at the unrelenting contact of skin on skin and jumped slightly when he leaned back down to whisper in her ear, “Breathe.” At that moment she realized she hadn't in at least the last thirty seconds, too overcome by the enormity of this moment to function.

And then, just as sensuously as things had started, time caught up them and his mouth was descending on hers once more, their tongues returning to a dance they'd left unfinished the night before. His hands slid back down her arms, pulling his chest back slightly so that he could hold both of her full, tear-drop shaped breasts in his hands. 

He broke off from kissing her to gaze at them again, following his hands down to pull first her right nipple into his mouth, then the left, circling each tight bud with his tongue before sucking, gently. He ground his dick into her belly again and Darcy had the stray hysterical worry that she was so wet she was going to drip onto the floor before his right hand pushed up through the lips of her cunt to pet her softly.

“Darcy,” was all he could manage, the dilated pupils of his eyes leaving only the barest hint of their brilliant blue color. His index finger stroked up into her, and her hips pushed down to meet it, needing the friction. 

“I, ha! I know. Oh god, I know,” she whimpered in response, and he lowered his mouth to hers once more as he pulled his finger out, replacing it with two. He pushed, far up into her, and when he curled his fingers back towards himself then pressed his thumb firmly into her clit while shifting against her to kiss a particularly sensitive spot just under her jaw, well, he didn't leave much choice for Darcy but to come all over his hand, did he?

“Oh motherloving Gods of Valhalla and all the poetic eddas, holy hell ke...ke...keep going Bucky, ri-aight fucking there,” she wheezed out between pants. He curled his fingers again and her hips bucked back at him, in response he ground his dick back into her to keep her still and she felt another trickle of precum mark her belly as the aftershocks of her wild orgasm made her thighs tremble. He pulled back from her, his left hand holding her by the waist so firmly she stopped fighting to make her legs hold her up and trusted him with her weight.

His mouth drew down to her right collarbone, and with his body pushed against hers once more, his hands reached down, behind each of her thighs. He pulled and she followed his lead, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and using what little coordination she had left to jump up on him. He caught her, his left hand reaching down to support her ass as his right gripped her firmly at the nape of her neck. He continued sucking on her collarbone and she shuddered, too turned on to even think straight.

“Yuh-you're gonna gimme a hickey if you keep that up, baby,” she breathed, her eyes sliding closed and head lolling back.

He turned, carrying her the short distance to the futon where he spun and sat, once more, on its edge. His eyes slid down her stomach to her cunt, laid bare and open for him to look his share while she straddled his wide-spread legs and then his focus moved back up to her face.

“I know,” he panted back, “That's the idea.” His metal hand was on her neck then, the two hands directing her to focus once again on his face, and when she did he smoothed his cool fingers back down her spine, returning it to her ass. “Can we... Do you want to, uh, I don't have anything...” he tried, unable to ask for what he wanted.

“Fuck it, dude,” she said, closing her eyes again to try and steady her breathing then opening them to smile at him cheekily as she leaned back, reaching across the bed, and pulled a condom out of the bag. She took him in hand gently, ripping open the package with her teeth and spitting it somewhere behind her then rolled the condom down over the swollen head of his cock. His right hand moved to rest on top of hers and he increased the pressure, squeezing her hand so she would hold him more firmly as she rolled it the rest of the way down. He guided her, showing her exactly how he wanted to be touched, and their faces pushed forward to meet in a kiss that was no longer gentle, or sweet, but rather a frenzied clash of tongue and teeth and lip and breath.

“Come on, then, sweetheart,” he panted into her mouth, pulling at her hips until she rose up, and together they aligned his dick towards her cunt. She toyed with him for one second more, running the head along her slit then pushing it back against his belly as she ground her clit against him. He growled, actually physically produced a growl like a goddamn caveman, and pulled her hips back up again before lining himself up and snapping up into her at the same time as he pulled her down onto him.

It was... too much. He was unquestionably the biggest guy she'd ever been with, and it had been a while in any case, and she wailed involuntarily. He froze, and looked at her like a frightened little boy, so she lifted her hand to comb through the soft hair at the nape of his neck and whispered, “Just... give me a second. Kiss me. Right here.”

She pointed to her left collarbone, yet unmarked and he complied, placing open-mouthed kisses until the bruise there rivaled its partner. She felt her muscles unclench, and relaxed into the burn of having him seated so deeply inside her, and then she was tilting her hips in small circles, grinding her clit against his pubic bone. He looked up at her with an unspoken question and at her nod, slid his metal hand to her thigh and helped her raise herself up even as he pulled back, back until only the thick head of his cock was still inside her. Then he thrust back in and chased that epic thrust with another, then another, each one feeling to her deeper and harder than the last. She was bouncing on him now, following him back down each time he pulled away and taking, just taking it, everything he was giving her. Their rhythm didn't stay measured for much longer before he grabbed her thighs, pulled her to him tightly, and rolled them both over onto the bed.

The change of angle was all it took and without even realizing how close she'd been, Darcy wailed again as she came, the intensity of it causing her feet, crossed behind the middle of his back, to clench in pleasure. The walls of her cunt pulsed wetly around his cock and he slid his hands under her, pulling her chest so close to his Darcy felt almost breathless as he thrust into her forcefully, erratically, a half dozen more times before moaning into her neck and stilling completely.

A second, maybe two, later, his body relaxed completely on top of her. Her hands slid up and down his back and she crooned nonsense into his left ear, a mix of dirty compliments on his dick size and endearing nicknames. She kissed the skin under his ear and felt him jerk again, sensitive now as his dick was beginning to soften inside her. He pulled out and rolled off her then, pulling off the condom, tying it, and crossing to the kitchenette to dispose of it before returning and rearranging them both so they were laying properly on the bed, their heads sharing her pillow and their limbs almost indistinguishably tangled together.

She sighed, deeply, returning that ever-present intense stare of his, and smiled at him warmly. Whatever thought was troubling his mind cleared and he smiled back, a small and joyful thing. Now _his_ hands rubbed her back soothingly and her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, and their lips met again, this time in a gentle, tender kiss.

“Bucky, that was... I think generally we keep it pretty real between us so I feel like I should tell you, that was hands down the best sex I have ever had in my life.” She looked at him, the emotions on her face completely raw and open and there for him to see.

He cleared his throat, knocked his forehead against hers, and answered, “I'm with you. I don't... I don't think it's ever been like that for me.”

There was a lot that went unspoken in the following moments of gentle kissing and whispered sentiments. Somehow, though, they both seemed to understand exactly what the other was trying to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoop, there it is.


	9. The One With All the Revelations

“So, ahem, hey folks! Hello? Hey party people, good morning, happy Friday! Thanks everyone for taking the time to join us up here for this meeting. I've just got a couple of quick things to get out there and then I'll let you all be on your way. Okay, first of all. My secretary Maggie, Ms. Jones that is, has informed me that the janitorial staff is not being alerted when there's an issue in the bathrooms. I know, I know, don't groan at me! They're busy, guys, and with last year's cutbacks they can't do the rounds as regularly as we all might hope for, okay? Just, go find somebody if something horrible is happening in one of the toilets. That's all I ask. It's part of the social contract, gang. It's the thin coat of glue holdin' this fragile thing we call civilization together.

Okay, secondly. The gala is tonight, which I kno-- hey, Joel, come on! I know you guys all know this, but I just wanted to let you know that a few of us department heads have put together some carpools, so if you need a ride just let me or Tony Beiderbecke know before three pm. Are you listening guys? Before three pm. Repeat it back to me. Okay, very good, gold star for all of you.

Now, finally, starting next week we're bringing back themed Fridays. What's that? Why? Because it's a hoot and a holler, that's why! So next week's theme will be, let's see... nineties neon! Ms. Jones has informed me she owns about seventeen thousand psychedelic scarves "from her heyday" so if you're really at a loss go talk to her, capiche? As an added incentive folks, anyone participating gets to take a cookie from the break-room that I, your fearless leader, will be providing.

Yeah, actually Angela, they _will_ from Raresweets, thanks for asking, great question! Gang, Raresweets is the best, and not enough people give it the appreciation it deserves. I know Pret a Manger is right around the corner but support local businesses, people! Alright look, it's just something nice we can do to celebrate a long week of hard work. All we're asking is that you throw in a buck or two to help keep it going, and if we have anything left over at the end of the year, well I don't exactly know, maybe we'll throw ourselves a crazy New Year's Party, huh? Rockin' around the Holiday Season Tree?

Okay, that's it for now. Thanks for giving me a small portion of your attention. That's all I've got. But while we're here, is there anything anyone wants to add? Any airing of grievances?”

Darcy looked up from the magnificently ornate doodle covering half a page of her day planner, and glanced around the conference room with bated breath. Nobody. Say. A word, she thought, as loudly as possible. She made eye contact with Married Jack who looked like he was bracing himself to ask a question, his hand slowly rising, and shook her head no. He dropped his hand back into his lap. Everyone seemed to be on the same page because there was total silence among the previously rowdy staff.

“Alrighty rooney. Go get 'em tigers, and all of that. If I don't see you at the gala tonight, have a great weekend everybody!”

Darcy gathered her stuff and moved along with the flow of coworkers heading for the door. Larson touched her lightly on the shoulder and nodded his head back towards the head of the conference room table. “Got a sec, Lewis?”

“Yeah, of course Mr. Larson. What can I do for you?”

“That's actually the question I was gonna ask you, kiddo. You've been pretty distracted all week, and I've noticed there were a couple galleries I sent you that never got posted...?”

“I know, I'm so sorry about that Mr. Larson. It's just, it's some personal stuff going on,” Darcy looked at Larson, who was nodding sympathetically, and blurted out, “With my boyfriend.”

“Oh, uh, haha, well okay then Lewis. Sure. What can we do to get you back up to speed?”

“Nothing sir, it's all taken care of now, I promise.” She smiled at him, praying against prayer he'd drop it.

“Oohkay. Done and done. So, how about the gala? You need a ride in the carpool?”

“Actually, Mr. Larson...”

“Hey now, you're not backing out on me, are you?” He peered over his glasses at her with disappointment.

“No, nope! I was just saying, um, I can get myself there. I'll be there. Maybe a little late, but I'll definitely be there,” she rambled.

“Knew I could count on you, Lewis. I'm hoping you can coordinate with the event photographers to get some choice snaps up on our social media by the end of the night. I'm certain if this event looks like a big enough to-do we can double our attendance next year! By the way, see how I used the word 'snaps', there? My nephew taught me that one this weekend. This old dog's still got some new tricks in him, eh?” He grinned at her jovially.

“Snaps! Yes. Very cool, Mr. Larson. I'll be on top of those snaps, boss man,” Darcy answered. He nodded at her and she left, taking the stairs back down to her office while she fumed and considered what the hell she was going to do. Going to some big stupid work party is not what she had had in mind for this evening.

 

*

Bucky pulled the sheets in closer to his face, and inhaled deeply. She'd left hours ago; he'd woken her up before sunrise to make love to her all over again and the bedding reeked of the two them and a night well spent. He knew he should get up and perhaps wash the sheets, and he would... soon. But he wanted to lay here a bit more and really luxuriate in what felt like the first true morning of life after HYDRA.

He'd felt it all week. The persistent calm and comfort of this tiny, safe space and that kind woman had allowed his ravaged nerves to begin healing. And with the healing had come memories, good and bad, not just the horrors the plagued him from his time as the soldier, but of the multifaceted human he'd once been. As James Barnes. It had been what he needed, hiding out here and taking refuge in her world for a while.

That's how he knew it was time for him to go. He felt human again, like he could think for himself and remember who he was. The good and the bad, the man and the weapon. But there were answers he needed to have, and though he might want to, he knew he wouldn't find them in Darcy Lewis.

And she had done enough. He might have felt human again, maybe, but he wasn't going to be much in the way of a potential partner for her for a long time. Maybe never. He couldn't ask her to wait for him. What if he was never his old self, never truly _Bucky_ again?

Still lost in contemplation, he smiled fondly as his hand wandered up to his neck where Darcy had done her damnedest to return the favor for the love marks he'd left on her neck and clavicle. The ones she'd bestowed were almost faded now, but she could still feel the shape of her mouth on him, her sharp teeth pinching briefly before her tongue laved over the reddened skin.

The smell of her, the taste. The feel of her wrapped so tightly around him. Her mouth and her cunt and her skin all blending together in his senses as something so unmistakably, unforgettably, Darcy. He felt himself getting hard and hoisted himself up and towards the bathroom. That was as good a sign as any that it was time to shower, get the day started. Take care of this situation.

 

*

Darcy burst into the apartment a little after six o'clock, face red and sweaty, glasses steaming up, hair frizzy, and clothes rumpled, shouting, “Oh god, don't even look at me! I'm literally hideous. This summer is no joke, dude! That damn humidity will be the death of us all!” Bucky looked up sympathetically from the futon, Iggy Pop's biography open in his lap. He'd been trying to stay as still as possible and catch whatever slight breeze might drift in to the otherwise still apartment. 

“Ugh, look at you. You're just sitting there, cool as a cucumber. Do you even feel heat?”

He raised his right arm so she could see the deep pit stains running down the side of his shirt. She grinned. “You are a prince, thank you. I completely forgot that I have to go to this stupid work event tonight. It is... trust me, like... the last thing I want to be doing today. I'd much rather be holed up in here with you, you know. Makin' time.” She winked and thought she saw a slight blush form across his rough cheekbones, although she couldn't be sure.

“What time is the work event?” he asked quietly, setting aside the book and rising, then walking towards her until he was completely in her space. 

“Seven, I barely have time to shower and get ready for this thing and I've basically accepted I'm gonna have to take a taxi if I wanna have any chance of looking presentable by the time I get there,” she groused.

“Seven...” he repeated thoughtfully, running his hand along her arm and looking down into her face intently.

“No, no way man! I don't have time! I've gotta get in the shower, like, five minutes ago. Ugh, okay, not fair... touching me like that definitely does not count as playing fair.”

His large hands spread across each of her hips as he pulled her towards his body, knowingly holding her in the same places he'd left fingerprints the night before. “I didn't know I was s'posed to play fair,” he murmured, his lips sinking down to meet hers. They kissed for several minutes, indulging in the feel of each other as they swayed lightly together.

Finally, Darcy pulled away. “Ugh, okay! Fine! You're getting in the shower with me. You can scrub my back and then we'll pretend that that time-saving exercise cancels out anything else that happens in there.” 

He grinned in response, lifting his t-shirt over his head and following her into the bathroom.

 

*

Captain America smiled nobly as the fourteenth round of donors squeezed in around him, laughing and shouting at each other about group poses and serious faces versus silly ones. He himself was bored silly, but of course that was an experience he'd grown used to in his time with the USO. The mask he was wearing plus his own preternatural composure usually managed to hide this emotion from the general public. He was already regretting his last-minute decision to do Natasha this favor.

As the group moved on, their smart phones and Go-Pro's having captured the moment for posterity, Rogers had a moment to roll his shoulders, release some of the tightly-wound tension there, and take a look around the airy, hangar-like hall of the National Air and Space Museum. It was lit atmospherically to highlight the beautiful antique planes suspended above the some four hundred odd attendants' heads. Some of those planes he remembered flying himself, Steve reflected, in a time that still felt all-too-recent. There were tall tables draped in expensive-looking cream brocade scattered around the room for the guests to lean against while enjoying the cocktails, flutes of champagne, and hors d'oeuvres that were being circulated by tuxedo-clad waiters. The music was muted, nonthreatening jazz being produced from speakers tucked inconspicuously around the room. It was a pretty nice event, all told. The party-goers mostly looked relaxed, happy, and if he had to guess, rich.

It's not that Steve was a class snob or anything, but he'd grown up knowing very distinctly the feeling of wanting, all the time, the things you couldn't have. Couldn't have because of money, couldn't have because of physical limitations, couldn't have because of the kind of world they'd lived in back then. He'd gotten used to recognizing the lack of that want in the faces of the wealthy, and most times he was able to guess which side of middle class a person landed on just by looking at them. He wasn't really sure if he could still do it here in this century considering, well, they all had so much more than he'd ever had.

Still, when a flustered, curvy brunette in a too-tight ball gown approached him from the left he clocked her as having grown up somewhere between working poor and middle class. He felt tempted to ask her, assess how good his radar still was, but the urgent way she grabbed him by the elbow and led him into a quiet corridor away from the improvised ball-room stoked his curiosity.

“Ma'am? Do I know you? Are you in trouble, can I help you?” he prompted as she stood there, visibly gathering her nerve to speak. What could be so immensely scary and overwhelming that she seemed to be at a loss for words?

“You're Steve Rogers,” she accused, pointing at him.

“Yes I am,” he responded, now feeling wrong-footed and adrift.

“I studied you in high school,” she exhaled, then continued, “You and the Howling Commandos. My dad was _such_ a fan, dude. He used to talk about your damn 1942 Harley-Davidson WLA-”

“The Liberator,” he interjected.

“Yeah, the Liberator. It was like he had a mental map of it memorized, you know? He really respected you, what you did in the war.”

Steve wanted to respond but wasn't sure quite how, and Darcy looked like she was gearing up to continue so he merely nodded.

“You're great. Thank you for your service to this country, man. I, um... I visited the Smithsonian exhibit on you about a week ago. I'm not stalking you or anything. I work for the museum, I do all the social media stuff...You know what that is?” She peered up at him skeptically.

“I'm aware of social media, Miss...”

“Oh! Lewis. I'm Darcy Lewis. My dad was Frank Lewis. You don't know him or anything but I just thought you might wanna know, like, the name of your number one fan. Actually, I kinda need to talk to you about that exhibit. But... I need to know if I can trust you. Well, I mean... of course I can trust you, you're Captain America. I guess what I'm asking is, can you trust me?”

At this point Steve was beginning to wonder if this was one of Natasha's complicated machinations to get him into the twenty-first century dating scene. Normally he'd have wagered this was a little too fantastical, a little too out there for Nat's matchmaking style but then... maybe she was getting bored while living her life on the run and had decided to dial up the intrigue for a laugh.

“Miss Lewis, I don't know you. I'm glad your father was a fan of mine, that's always nice to hear. But I'm not exactly certain what it is I'm trusting you with, so I can't say if I do or not. Maybe you could give me a little bit more to work with here?”

“Okay, very fair points. Very fair. Yes. I think I started this at the wrong place. Let me try again, okay? I know where Bucky Barnes is,” she said to him in a lowered voice, blinking up at him meaningfully.

Then all Steve could hear was the blood rushing in his ears as the bottom of his stomach seemingly landed on the floor. Had she said...? “Excuse me?” he asked, trying to stall for time while his thoughts careened wildly. He lifted his gaze to peer down both ends of the hallway, checking to see if this was some kind of ambush situation.

“He's safe. I know him. I met him a week ago, he was at the exhibit. Your exhibit, Cap. He was scared and lost and looking for answers. I don't know exactly if he remembers you or not, he doesn't really talk about you but I was thinking, I dunno, maybe it's like, too painful? But it's starting to come back to him, I think. His childhood, being a kid in Brooklyn.” 

He looked down at her suspiciously now, turning his head and checking once again that there was no one approaching them. “Everyone knows he came up in Brooklyn with me, ma'am. Of course you would too, if you'd been to the exhibit. I was there. They've got all sorts of information on Bucky,” he answered, challenging her to do better.

“Oh? Oh. Okay. His favorite food from childhood is hobo beans and sausage casserole, which I mean, don't even get me started on the irony of that one, right? His mom's name was Luciana and she used to make him chicken and dumplings when he'd had a bad day. He's still got a huge crush on Claudette Colbert but I pretty much sold him on the charms of Emma Stone so he likes her now, too. His little sister was Rebecca Barnes. His family had an RCA Radiola and they all used to sit around listening to some radio show on Saturdays, um, ah crap what was it... What was it? He told me, it had like dragons and princes and magic and stu-”

“Let's Pretend,” Steve whispered, his eyes boring furiously into hers now. “Where is he? Is he safe? How did you know I'd be here? I'm going to need you to take me to him, Miss Lewis,” he barked at her urgently, grabbing her by the elbow and leading her towards the closest exit.

“Whoa whoa whoa, _dude_!” Darcy shouted, pulling her arm from his light hold and planting her feet on the floor. “I didn't talk to him about meeting with you so I am _not_ gonna take you directly to him. You can't really think that's a good idea, do you? Just surprising him? He'll definitely spook and run, man... 

Look, I didn't know you were gonna be here or I coulda planned this better, you know? Here's what I can do. I can get your contact information to him and maybe put in a good word for you and then we can all just let Bucky Barnes take control of his own destiny for a little while. How 'bout that? That work for you?” She stood there, arms crossed and eyebrows raised as she tapped her right foot at him churlishly.

Steve paused, took a step back. He sighed and looked down at his feet. Cute bossy brunettes were surely going to be the death of him. “Of course Miss Lewis. If that's how he wants to play this, that's how we'll play it.”

He looked around dejectedly, checking once more to see if anyone was nearby. Her turned back to her, speaking hastily and in a harsh whisper. “I have an email address. You can contact me there. Have you got a pencil, can you take this down?”

Darcy reached into her tiny, glittering purse. She pulled out a pencil stub and a small notebook.

“I always have a pencil, Cap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys just please let Tony Beiderbecke know if you need a ride. Before 3 pm though, okay? He's not your Uber driver.
> 
> Other thing: I am in no way associated with Raresweets, I've never even frequented their establishment. I just thought the name was fun and was really amused with the idea of Darcy's boss being obsessed with some random bakery, like you know it's a workplace inside joke among Darcy and her coworkers.


	10. The One with the Letter

Darcy,

There will never be words good enough to describe how thankful I am for you. You gave me back my self. I feel like a person now, a person with a friend and family somewhere maybe. There's a lot pieces that are still missing, and a lot of things I got to go do. Where I'm going I can't bring you with me and I can't ask you to wait for me. So don't do that. Live your life. I'll try to get a phone when things calm down so just do me one favor, and don't change your number. ~~I feel~~ ~~What's between us~~ We just got to keep moving sometimes, darling, no matter how bad the future looks. You reminded me that trusting myself is okay. I got that back. I meant it when I said it's never been like that for me, how it was between us. 

Take care of yourself.

 

*

Darcy jumped down the stairs two at a time and burst through her apartment building's front door, running out into the cool summer morning, casting about the street desperately in every direction in the hope of catching him. She'd fallen asleep with the man in her arms, sweat cooling on their naked bodies as they'd whispered silly knock-knock jokes to each other between kisses, and then she'd woken with a note on his pillow. A goodbye note couldn't be the end of their story. It was too cruel. They hadn't gotten enough time together, this wasn't _fair_. She grit her teeth together, turning continuously in the hopes that she just wasn't looking in the right spots for him. 

She'd just found him, goddammit. She hadn't even gotten a chance to tell him about her conversation with Steve.

There was a shape at the end of the street; a tall, strong man striding purposefully away from her. Her eyes scanned past it then whipped back, and without thinking she started running in her bare feet down the sidewalk. But even as she ran towards it, the image jumped, danced, quivered away to a wisp and then was gone; it was as though it had never been there at all. A trick of the eye. Her arms fell to hug her own waist, pulling her robe more tightly around herself, and then she collapsed on a nearby stoop with a broken sob, the note still crumpled in her shaking hand. 

 

*

“Hey Darce. Are you okay? Your message last night was so vague. Is this a Two Cocktail Minimum Call, or an emergency?”

“Yeah, no, Janey, not an emergency, just a TCMC. What're you drinking?”

“White wine spritzer, please no judging. It's ungodly hot here. You?"

“Vodka and a Pabst Blue Ribbon back.”

“Ugh, that's repulsive Darcy. And it's not a cocktail. Wait, have you been crying? Okay, I'm sensing that, er... maybe... we aren't celebrating?”

“What person in their right mind would celebrate anything with vodka and a PBR?”

“Hipsters, Darcy. They're a strange breed of people, and I've learned a lot recently about Vienna's own fascinating sub-species. They call themselves... the Teknovegans. They're very nice people, actually... No! You distracted me. Seriously, now, what's going on?”

“...So, you remember when you met Thor and like, all that insanity went down in New Mexico and I was like, I know he's hot and the sex must be good but no way can you actually, kind of … basically... fall in love with someone in a week?”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yeah. Settle in, we've got a lot of catching up to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end."
> 
> Whether that quote is true in life or not is debatable, but it's certainly applicable to this series.

**Author's Note:**

> "Fata Morgana mirages significantly distort the object or objects on which they are based, often such that the object is completely unrecognizable. It is an Italian phrase derived from the vulgar Latin for "fairy" and the Arthurian sorcerer Morgan le Fay, from a belief that the mirage, often seen in the Strait of Messina, were fairy castles in the air, or false land designed to lure sailors to their death created by her witchcraft." (Wikipedia)


End file.
